


Unbreakable Ties

by Marwana



Series: Ties [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2018-07-26 21:30:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7591153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marwana/pseuds/Marwana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Family Ties. Strange to think how much your life can change in a year. Learning that your mother is adopted is one thing, but that your arch-enemy is your grandfather is another. Now that his entire life has been flipped upside-down, what is Harry to do? Who can he trust? (Summary thanks to njchrispatrick)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to the characters.

**Unbreakable Ties**

**Prologue**

**_“:…:”_** Parseltongue.

**oOoOoOo**

He was surrounded by darkness from all sides; a warm, soothing darkness which made him feel safe and calm and content.  
He had always preferred the darkness of his cupboard over the light, spacy – though small – room the Dursleys had given him just before his eleventh birthday. His uncle hadn’t been able to enter his cupboard, his aunt had an almost unhealthy fear of spiders and his cousin had still been afraid of the dark, something he knew the other still feared secretly.  
  
So the darkness had always been his sanctuary, because when he had been forced to leave it he had gotten hurt – both physical and mentally – time and again. The first time he had gotten hurt in the light, he hadn’t understood what had happened and why.  
He had been five at the time and his uncle had chosen to punish him for breaking a completely worthless plate Dudley had dropped on purpose. He had fought back because in his naïve mind and in the many movies and series Dudley liked to watch the light always showed the lies and secrets and saved people from pain and suffering.  
He quickly learned that those ideas were the lies and that light, for him, was equal to pain and suffering.  
  
By the age of seven he had created his own artificial darkness he used every time he had been dragged into the light only to get hurt: he fled into his own mind where the light – and therefor the pain – couldn’t reach him.  
  
He was well aware that fleeing into his own mind wasn’t healthy or normal, but the safety of the darkness had always attracted him when he was in pain. It meant that he was safe from the Dursleys or whoever tried to hurt him and it meant that he would wake up in the relative safety of his cupboard some hours, days or weeks later almost completely healed from whatever the Dursleys had done to him. It was always easier to deal with the aftermath if he fled into his own peaceful world.  
  
And that feeling of safety had always meant the world to him.  
  
He shifted in his darkness into a different position, uncaring of his own nakedness or the fact that he wasn’t laying on anything. This was his world, the darkness he had created; he could do whatever he wanted in here. In his darkness no one could hurt him, no one could scold him or tell him what to do or think. In this darkness he could rest while his body and active mind dealt with whatever had hurt him.  
  
He absentmindly flicked a small imprint of a memory away without even bothering to try and see what it was about. Memories couldn’t hurt him when he was in here, but as he had learned early on neither could he see what they were about.  
  
There was no sense of time in his darkness; he had no need of it.  
His body would tell him when it was time for him to move back into his body and into the reality and it had yet to give him any signal whatsoever.  
And no one could force him to leave the safety of his darkness before he was ready.  
  
Oh, he was aware of the fact that someone – or multiple people – had tried. He had been able to feel their presence and he had seen their light but with every inch they had moved closer to his darkness he had retreated further into himself until they had either stopped trying to force him out or he hadn’t been able to see the light anymore.  
  
He shifted into yet another position, the first signs that his body was telling him that it was nearly ready to wake up. It had almost finished progressing whatever had hurt him, though he himself couldn’t recall what had made him retreat. He never could until he returned to reality.  
  
Soft murmurs could be heard and he felt something gently rub against his darkness; not to invade but to tell him that whoever it was, he or she was there if he needed them. He shifted yet again and the murmurs disappeared until only silence remained, leaving him alone with a barely there feeling of content.  
  
It was not yet time to return to reality, he was not yet completely healed from whatever had forced him into his soothing darkness. But soon, soon he would be ready.  
Ready for the world, ready to once again wake up and face the harsh, light reality.  
  
**oOoOoOo**  
  
“How is he?” he asked her for what probably was the thousandth time, “are there any changes?”  
“Physically he is fine, mentally can’t be determined until he wakes up,” madam Pomfrey told him tonelessly, like a broken record that was forced to repeat the same sentence again and again. And in a way she was. He had asked this question almost three times a day since the day the boy had locked himself away in his mind.  
  
“Any luck with finding his grandfather?” she asked him curiously. She had been near Harry’s bed when he had had his conversation with Dolores Umbridge and she had managed to hear enough to understand the gist of the story.  
“No, Cornelius is disinclined to show me the records of Harry’s adoption as it is a private matter,” he answered her softly as he removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes, “and the Department head of the Department of Child and Family Matters is a suspected Death Eater.”  
  
“So, no help there,” she hummed thoughtfully, “correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t Dolores stated that Cornelius would send the man a letter to inform him about young mister Potter’s state of health? Wouldn’t she know the man in that case? Can’t you ask her for a name?”  
“She agrees with Cornelius,” he pointed out wryly, “she’ll not give me the name.”  
  
 “What I do wonder about,” the nurse told him with worry easily noticeable in her voice, “is why his grandfather never contacted _me_. Isn’t he concerned about his grandson?”  
“I don’t know,” he answered her tiredly as he placed his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose, “maybe he can’t reach him or maybe he is one of the reasons why the poor child is in the condition he is in.”  
“You don’t mean to say…” Madam Pomfrey started but she trailed off.  
  
“As far as we knew, Lily Evans was just another muggleborn girl,” Albus told her, “she was smarter than average and a bit more powerful but just a regular girl born from regular muggles. So why did a wizard who claimed to be Harry’s grandfather from his _mother’s_ side adopt him? And where did that claim come from?”  
“Wouldn’t the goblins know?” she asked him carefully.  
“They might, but they would never tell anyone who doesn’t need to know,” he answered softly, “there is _one_ person we could ask and he is currently in no shape to answer them.”  
  
Silence fell as they both turned to watch the mentioned person as he rested on the bed, his conscience hidden away in his own tightly shielded mind.  
“Oh Harry,” Albus murmured mournfully, “how I wish I knew how to help you.”  
  
But the boy didn’t react and he could do nothing but watch over him as sunlight turned to dusk, and dusk turned to night.  
  
**oOo**  
  
A heavy, mournful, _desperate_ silence could almost be felt as everyone just stared at each other.  
They had been hurt grievously during what was known to them as the Battle of the Ministry. Their group had always been small, so the loss of four people – two of them not even members – was felt heavily.  
  
First of all, there was Emmeline Vance who had died, the second victim of the Second War. She had been the only one to die and even though many believed the death to be a blessing for the horribly tortured and broken woman, they still mourned her passing.  
  
The second and third – temporarily – losses were Harry Potter and Sirius Black, who were still comatose. Neither seemed ready to wake up just yet, or any time soon.  
They had tried everything they could think of. They had tried testing their minds with Legilimency to see if they were active on some level. They had tried casting every general counter spell, counter curse and counter charm they could think of or they could find in the books in the Hogwarts library without any success. And last but not least, they tried every known potion under the sun that should have woken a person under normal circumstances. But even that failed to wake the two males from their comas.  
All they could do on the moment for the two males was to either wait for them to wake up or check the more obscure – but light, always light never dark – texts available to them.  
  
The last person whom was dearly missed was the youngest child and the only daughter of the Weasleys. Ginevra Weasley had been taken captive during the Battle and due to the lack of a spy they had no idea where she was kept, in what kind of state she was in and how she was treated.  
For all they knew she could have been killed on the very same day she had been taken, but no one dared to suggest this out of fear and respect for the Weasley Matriarch. The lack of a mutilated body was the only thing that made the family cling onto whatever hope to see her alive they had left.  
  
“Any news?” Albus asked softly as he tiredly slumped down further in his chair. He knew that he probably looked older and more frail than ever but the war – especially the fact that Fudge still hadn’t cottoned onto the fact that Voldemort was back and therefor denying everything – was wearing them all down. And while he was the leader and should show himself as strong, the truth was that he was tired. So very tired.  
Soft calls of “no” and shakes of heads answered his question.  
  
“Did you manage to convince Fudge yet?” Alastor asked him gruffly before he could dismiss them all. He was more than ready to call it a day – so they could all get the rest they needed – but he realised just as much as Alastor had that they should do _more_. But most of all: he needed to be seen doing _something_ , unless he wanted to lose the leadership to someone who would, with the best of intentions, ruin everything.  
“No,” he stated with a shake of his head, “neither about Voldemort’s return nor about the fact that I _need_ to know who Harry’s grandfather is.”  
“Are we even sure that he’s a wizard?” young William Weasley bit out almost aggressively.  
  
Normally, this would have earned him a scolding from his mother and some surprised looks from the other Order members, but the kidnapping of Ginny had hit all of the Weasleys hard. And though the older brothers felt miserable about the fact that she was gone, no one felt as bad or as guilty as the youngest brother. He was more than aware that young Ronald carried a strong feeling of failure with him since that day. A sense of failure he had also carried – still carried – and knew well. He himself had always blamed Gellert for the untimely death of his sister, which was just intensified with the fact that he blamed himself even more.  
He just hoped that Ron wouldn’t blame Harry for the captivity of his sister, as that would most likely destroy the other boy. _If_ the boy hadn’t changed due to the influence of his – still unknown – grandfather.  
  
“The man has to be at least a squib,” Kingsley said soothingly, his deep voice cut easily to the murmurs which had started as he had drifted off in his thoughts.  
At the questioning looks he elaborated, “no muggle can enter the Ministry.”  
“It is most likely that the man is indeed a wizard,” Albus continued before more questions could be asked, “the one thing I would like to know, however, is how he is related to Harry.”  
  
He turned towards the few members the Order had that had had dealings with the muggle’s before and knew how to keep the attention away from them, “Remus, Kingsley I need the two of you to see what you can find in the muggle world about Lily Potter – née Evans. Her birth certificate, the records of every school and club she attended before Hogwarts, her friends, her family. Everything you can find should be able to help. Tonks, I need you to do the same, only concerning James Potter. Alastor, see if you have any associates left who are able to help us; either with information about the Potters or with obscure knowledge about spells and/ or potions.”  
  
The mentioned people nodded and he was about to open his mouth to dismiss them – for real this time as there was nothing left to discuss – when Molly spoke up for the first time since her baby girl had been taken.  
“What about G-Ginny?” she asked with a sob, “I p-promised her to buy her a n-new dress before s-school starts again. T-there are only two more w-weeks left u-until-.”  
Sobs stopped whatever she wanted to say and his eyes softened as they fell upon the pail and fragile looking woman. The people who had made to stand upon seeing his opening mouth sat back down in order to await his reaction.  
“I’m sorry, Molly,” he started to say, “but there is no-”  
  
“Like Hell there is,” William exploded as he shot up and slammed his fists upon the table, “there are known Death Eaters in Azkaban captured during the last war, ones not freed during the raid on Azkaban. One of them _has_ to know where she is. They just _have to_.”  
His sentence ended with a note of desperation and – even though he mumbled a soft apology immediately after his explosion – his eyes implored him to admit that they could. That they knew and that they would tell them.  
  
“Some of them might know,” he admitted warily, “but we need the Minister to gain entrance to Azkaban.”  
He closed his eyes in defeat as he admitted, “and he is not willing to listen to anything I have to say. According to him, those Death Eaters attacking during the Battle of the Ministry were just terrorists who acted on their own and their attack on the Ministry was nothing but an attempt to show that some people still remembered a fallen enemy of the Ministry and would do anything to avenge him. A desperate attempt made by desperate people. He doesn’t even believe that they were Death Eaters.”  
  
Looks were shared between members of the Order and even though he couldn’t see all of the looks he didn’t like what he saw in the eyes of some of the members.  
“I think it’s time we changed the rules of this war,” young William – the surprising spokesmen of the Weasleys – stated sharply and he saw some people nod their heads in agreement, “Voldemort has had too much power for too long. It’s time we turned his own game against him.”  
His eyes burned as he looked at him, “everything they can do, we can do better. It’s time we showed the world just who _we_ are and what _we_ – the Order of the Phoenix – can do!”


	2. Chapter 1

**Unbreakable Ties**

**Chapter 1**

**_“:…:”_** Parseltongue.

**oOoOoOo**

_Dear mother, dear father, dear siblings,  
Hi mum, hi dad,_

_I am sorry. I know that it is an empty apology, but I am so very, very sorry.  
I am sorry I did not believe you when you told me that You-Know-Who had returned. I am sorry that I did not listen when you told me that something needed to be done. I am sorry I believed Cornelius Fudge over my own family, the people who have raised me. I am so very sorry for the fact that I have ignored you and every letter you have sent me. I am sorry for every sneer, for every slur, and every degrading remark I have let undefended. I am sorry for the fact that Ginny, my little sister, has been kidnapped from a place she should not have been but still was. And I am sorry that it took her kidnapping to finally see what you have been trying to tell me for an entire year._

_So, while it is an empty apology as there is nothing I can do to make up for my behaviour of last year, I do apologize. But that is not the only reason for this letter, though it is the most important one._

_I wish to know if there is anything I can do to help. Help free Ginny, help with this war, help finish of You-Know-Who. I do not care, I just wish to help to make up for my astoundingly neglectful behaviour. I am still part of the Ministry, and though I have seen that change is necessary, I am still the Junior Assistant to the Minister. Therefore, I have access to sensitive information that might help you in this war._

_I cannot stress how sorry I am for my behaviour, and I will do anything – anything – to both make up for it and to help my little sister find her way home. Just let me know how I can help._

_I hope to hear from you soon._  
_Truly faithfully yours,_  
_Percy._

**oOoOoOo**

“Have you heard anything from the Ministry concerning the Defence against the Dark Arts position?”  Minerva asked him sharply.  
He looked up from the papers he had been reading to stare at her from over his half-moon glasses.

She looked old, stressed and tired. They all did, but for some reason Minerva seemed to see the fact that five of her Lions and a single Raven  had left the school during the school year and had gotten kidnapped and hurt as a blow to her position as a the Head of a House and the responsibilities that went with that title.

“No, they have yet to respond to my queries,” he finally said after he noticed how impatient she started to become, “but according to that law Cornelius created they can only push someone forward if _we_ are incapable of finding someone.”  
“Do you have anyone in mind?” she asked him with a frown.

He closed his eyes in both grieve and a tiredness so heavy it made him incapable of sleeping, “no. I had considered asking Severus last year, but as Voldemort killed him…”  
He ignored the flinch at the name of their adversary as he looked back upon the loss of one of their own.

“Do you need me to write an advertisement in the papers?” she asked him, skilfully ignoring the tear that had started to make its way down his cheek.  
“It would be appreciated,” he answered softly.

She nodded sharply, before she whirled around and left his cluttered office, leaving him one again alone with his paperwork and his own thoughts.

**oOoOoOo**

He could hear them discuss Ginny’s probably location softly and he couldn’t help the sharp pain that shot through him. It had been _his_ task as the older brother to protect her _and he had failed_. She had been taken by _You-Know-Who_ himself and he had done _nothing_. He had just stood there, hidden behind _Tonks_ while _Malfoy_ abducted his _sister_! _His sister_.

He hugged the small wrapped gift closer to his own body. It was the gift – a bracelet similar to the necklace he had given Harry for Christmas – he had meant to give her on her birthday. He knew she liked Harry a lot, and he had always hoped that his best friend – former best friend? – would ask her out.

But that wouldn’t be possible now. Not with Ginny _dead_. Not with Harry in a coma.

And now she would even miss the start of the new school year. She would miss the journey with the train. She would miss the absolutely heavenly start-of-the-year meal. She would miss the Sorting, the catching-up with her friends, the introduction of the new DADA teacher. _She would miss it all_.

“Should we inform Albus?” he heard his father say. He sounded _tired_ , _defeated_. He had been present during the fight as well and – though he had been wallowing in despair for weeks now – he knew that his father felt _beyond guilty_ for the fact that his daughter had been taken. It didn’t matter that his grieving mother had told her husband time and again that he had been protecting the others, that they had been heavily outnumbered, that he wouldn’t have been able to go against _You-Know-Who_ , his father still felt the guilt.

And he agreed, he blamed his father as well. Not as much as he blamed himself, but he still blamed him. _He_ was the adult, _he_ should have attacked the slimy Death Eaters. And he hadn’t and now Ginny was _gone_.

“No,” Bill stated sharply, “he’ll not act. He never has. He will only try to stop us.”  
“He has always hel-,” his mother started.  
“Has he?” his normally calm brother barked – and he could almost imagine his mother’s flinch – before he continued more gently, “it is well-known that the only person _Voldemort_ has feared is Albus Dumbledore. If this is the case, than why is Voldemort still here? Why hasn’t Albus Dumbledore made sure that Voldemort is no longer a danger?”

He had no doubt that his parents had flinched at the mention of their enemy’s name. He had flinched as well, after all.  
“No, we are on our own,” he continued, “ _Albus_ has done nothing but _screw up_. His _spy_ died, his _information_ is obsolete, his methods are _archaic_ , he keeps losing his allies left, right and centre and he keeps everyone in the dark.”

“No,” Bill repeated, “it’s time for a new generation of the Order of the Phoenix. One that _is_ willing to act.”  
He could hear his mother sob softly.  
“I’ll inform the others tonight after they have returned from stations, the train and Hogwarts,” his oldest brother told them, “it is for the best if you weren’t present for this meeting.”

He was called down not long after. It was time to leave for the station.

**oOoOoOo**

He looked down at the miserably, sniffling mess that was the once proud Malfoy Lord. Though the man had been smart enough _not_ to hurt either his heir or any of the students, he had also done nothing to stop his beyond mad sister in law.

McNair had already been punished. As the leader, he had been fully responsible for the entire team. He had warned him that if a single hair on the head of his heir had been harmed, if a single of his heir’s little friends would get hurt, if a single Order member would be harmed, he would pay the price in flesh and blood. And nearly every single one of the mentioned list had gotten hurt.

So he had killed him, but not before torturing him for days on end. And not before he had forced him to change his will to leave everything to one Harry Potter. The boy he should have protected.  
Children liked to get gifts, did they not? And money counted as a gift.

Bellatrix had been the second person he had punished heavily, especially as she had refused to tell him which curse she had used. However, as she was still useful he had let her live. He hadn’t tortured her, as the loss of her eye and the heavy scarring his heir had caused was more than enough physical torture for the rather vain woman.

He had however used his influence and position to force her out of the Black family. For someone like her, this was far worse than any physical torture he could ever cause that had not been already forced upon her. The loss of her dowry was nothing in comparison to the loss of her claim as one of the Ancient and Noble Blacks.

And though he had already punished the others – a couple of rounds of _Crucio_ was more than enough for the simpering fools – he had yet to truly punish Lucius beyond said rounds with the _Cruciatus_ curse. He twirled his wand around in his hand absent-minded as he remembered the screams that he had managed to rip from the normally so stoic man.

As the husband to one of the Black Ladies it had been his _duty_ to protect the Black Lord, one Sirius Black. As he had failed to do so, he had broken the treaty between the two Noble Houses automatically meant that the man had two choices.

The first one meant that he would lose his wife, the dowry she had been given, any and all Black items he had been gifted with _and_ his son. The second one meant that he had to pay a rather large fine to the House Black, but it would also mean that he would _keep_ his wife and son.

He smiled sadistically at the whimpering man even as he stopped twirling his wand and pointed it towards him. Whatever choice the man made, it would be easy to use it to get back into his heir’s good graces. And that was all that mattered on the moment, getting his heir’s trust back.

It was the only way to win both the war, and to keep his _promise_.

“It is time to make your choice,” he hissed out, deliberately elongating his s-sounds in such a way he knew would successfully intimidate and terrify the normally unflappable Malfoy Lord, “your precious money, or your precious family.”  
“M-my f-fam-ily, My Lord,” Lucius managed to gasp out almost immediately, “I c-choose m-my family.”  
“Good,” he stated darkly, even as his red, slit eyes gleamed in satisfaction, “arrange it.”

**oOoOoOo**

“For those who have just arrived: welcome!” he thundered, “for those who have returned: welcome back!”  
He was glad to see that everyone was mostly unharmed, though the absence of both Harry and Ginevra hurt him.

“I would like to remind every single one of you that the Forbidden Forest is just that: forbidden,” he stated firmly, “I would also remind you of the list that can be found in the office of our caretaker: Argus Filch. Do drop by to review it to your leisure.”

Some sniggers and mutters reached his ears but he ignored them.

“These are dark times,” he continued soberly, and a heavy silence fell, “as some of you have noticed both Harry Potter and Ginevra Weasley are missing. Although the Daily Prophet has not mentioned it in detail, I have no doubt that you have all heard about the terrorist attack on the Ministry of Magic a couple of months ago.”  
Even he noticed the rather nasty smirks some of the Slytherins wore and the dark glare the last remaining Weasley male shot the silver-green table.

“Ginevra Weasley was taken by Voldemort during the attack,” he stated softly, “Harry Potter has fallen into a coma. Neither will return until time permits it.”  
He had to raise his voice to be heard over the noise that had erupted after he had mentioned Voldemort, but he had been heard.

He was aware of the disapproving glances Minerva was shooting him, but there was nothing he could do. They deserved to know what had happened to their classmates, and to deny the presence of Voldemort during the attack on the Ministry would only come back to haunt them all.

“Enjoy your meal,” he finished his speech and sat back down. He knew that the children had noticed both the absence of Dolores Umbridge and the lack of a new Defence against the Dark Arts teacher. The truth was that no one had reacted to the advertisements they had posted in nearly every paper used in Great Britain. Neither had the Ministry reacted to his enquiries concerning the position. And he no longer had enough power that he could force Cornelius to respond to his letters. He just hoped that the Minister responded soon.

Because he was already tired, so very tired. Between the loss of some of his people, the kidnapping of Ginevra Weasley and his search for her, the state in which both Harry and Sirius had fallen into, the search for a new Defence teacher, the search for Voldemort, the running of the school and the Order, and all his other tasks he had not had a single moment to rest. And it was starting to show.

Maybe William had a point. Maybe it was time that the Order showed that they were not helpless. But he was so very afraid that that would just lower them to the same behaviour the Death Eaters exhibited. And that was not a can of worms he wanted to open. _Ever_.

**oOoOoOo**

“Your grandmother was, no _is_ , the single most beautiful female I have ever met,” a voice drifted softly towards him, even in his protective cocoon of darkness. The voice sounded familiar and the sound caused a mixed reaction – no matter how dulled it felt – in him.

On the one hand, the voice made him feel betrayed, anger, hatred, sadness, confusion, and pain. Mainly pain. On the other hand, the voice made him curious, cared for, wanted. And that only heightened his feeling of confusion until that was all that was left.

“Her hair was as fiery as her temper,” the voice crooned, though it sounded as if it came from far away, “her eyes were the colour of the summer-sky. She was strong, not only power-wise, but also mentally and physically. She was smart, a capable leader, and so incredible beautiful. And all _mine_.”  
He cocked his head curiously as he tried to hear more, to make the voice more clear.

“She was strong and curvy,” the voice continued strongly, “and she had enough magical power to form a threat to nearly everyone.”  
He shuddered slightly at the level of possessiveness that could be heard in the tone of the voice.  
“But not me,” the voice cooed, “no, she was no threat to me.”

The voice trailed off and it didn’t take long before he was once again alone.

**oOo**

“She was not human,” the same voice as before reached him and he turned towards where he thought it came from.  
“She would have been _nothing_ , had she been human,” the voice murmured, “her magic was wild and chaotic; just like her temperament. Just like your mother, actually.”

“And humans are so _dull_ , so _tamed_ ,” the voice suddenly gained a noticeable sneering tone, “and she was anything but.”  
He recoiled slightly at the suddenly hostile tone the voice had gained.

“She was a lamia. A descendent of the very first Lamia to be exact,” the voice crooned gently, as if it had felt him retreating, “a cursed demon. She who is forced to eat her own children.”  
“But she loved the idea of having her own child,” the voice sounded almost mournfully, “she would have loved her, so very much.”

“She would have loved you,” it hummed softly, and he had to strain his hearing to hear what was said “yes, she would have loved you.”

He was once again alone.

**oOo**

“I did not love her,” the voice purred soothingly some time later, “I am incapable of loving anyone or anything. But I cared for her. I cared deeply for my wife. The same way I care deeply for Nagini. The same way I would have cared for my daughter had she survived. The same way I will care for you, one day.”

“She was _mine_ ,” the voice hissed sharply, _possessively_ , “ _my_ wife, the mother of _my_ daughter, the grandmother of _my_ heir. _Mine_.”  
“She was not human,” it sounded calmer now, “it would have fit her ill. It would have made her _dull_ , _boring_ , _ordinary_. No, she was not human.”

“I suggest you wake up,” the voice continued as a presence rubbed itself against his shields. The presence was by far the most powerful one yet, and it seemed impatient, “you have been locked away long enough. _Wake up_!”

He tried to bury deeper into the darkness, just to get away from the voice, but no matter how deep he buried himself there was no escaping. The voice and those last words echoed through his safe-haven, even as he felt the presence slowly envelop the protective cocoon around him.

He felt smothered, assaulted, in _danger_. But there was nothing he could do. No one who could protect him. He was alone with the oppressive, _possessive_ presence.  
Suddenly, he was just alone. The presence had left him.  
And everything was white.

He had awoken.

**oOoOoOo**

“Is everyone here?” he called out softly as soon as the last pop had sounded, “everyone covered by a cloak?”  
He received eight nods, even as eight wands were drawn. They would be safe under the cover of the night and the harsh winds, but caution was always a good idea.

“It is not about killing our enemies,” he stated firmly, as soon as he was sure that he could be heard over the wind, “this is about rising against evil. About fighting what we believe for. This is about getting my sister back.”  
He carefully adjusted his own dark red and yellow cloak to make sure his features could not be seen and the wind could not take it, before he turned towards the opulent mansion hidden behind old, strong wards.

“This is about winning a war we have not started,” he continued even as he lifted his wand, “this is us showing that we are not weak, and that we will not lay down and do nothing.”

He cast the first spell meant to bring down the wards.  
“This is about us.”

 


	3. Chapter 2

**Unbreakable Ties**

**Chapter 2**

**_“:…:”_** Parseltongue.

**oOoOoOo**

It was chaos. Spells flew everywhere and it became harder and harder to avoid getting hit. Especially while defending one of their fallen friends.

It had started out so well. The wards had been old and powerful. Money had been no issue which meant that they had been well-maintained. But Bill had always been good with wards and ancient runes – one of the reasons he had become a curse breaker in Egypt – and he was skilled enough to take the ancient wards down. At least temporarily.

They had not encountered anyone once they had entered the well-maintained grounds surrounding the manor. They had also not encountered anyone once they had entered the actual manor.

In fact, they had not encountered a living being – neither with their magic or with their senses – until they had entered the family wing. The halls had been empty and clean. The library had been empty and clean. The cellars and dungeons has been empty and clean. The _kitchen_ had been empty and clean. There had not even by a single sign of the presence of _house elves_ , except for how clean everything was.

Everything they had seen had been empty and clean, with no sign of either living beings, items that could be classified as dark, items of considerable value or even portraits. It was as if the manor was slowly losing its liveliness. As if the Malfoys were losing their money and were forced to sell all their valuables. He wondered briefly if You-Know-Who had anything to do with the emptiness of the manor, but he quickly pushed that thought away.

And they were nearly ready to assume that the manor truly was empty. Right until they had finally stumbled upon the family wing. Because the moment they had entered that wing all Hell had broken loose.

Lucius Malfoy was in a bad shape but he attacked as fiercely as ever as soon as they came within view. Bellatrix Lestrange might have lost her right eye but she was just as dangerous as before. The Lestrange Brothers might have been weakened after Azkaban in a way the only female Lestrange never had, but they were still capable of some impressive magical feats. Narcissa Malfoy might look delicate but she cared deeply for her family and she fought back like a cornered wild-cat.   
And Draco Malfoy might be underage, but he had been tutored in the magical arts since he had been young.

And lastly, the house elves might be treated badly, but they were still loyal to the family. And their underhand tactics were just as, if not even more dangerous than, the dark spells that were fired towards them.

Mad-Eye Moody had been the first one to go down, courtesy of the combined effort of Bellatrix Lestrange and a lucky shot of two house elves. Tonks had been next, quickly followed by Charlie as he attempted to defend her downed body. Oddly enough, they were all still alive as far as he could see. But they would not be getting up any time soon.

Luckily enough, the also managed to take out Draco Malfoy rather quickly as he was not used to fighting. Not like them. Not like his family.

He just kept on fighting, even as he tried to shield his fallen brother. His spells became more and more desperate as they were quickly surrounded by the smaller number of enemies and their own group became smaller and smaller as Hestia and Fred were both taken out shortly after one another.

A nasty curse hit Kingsley and he grabbed at his wand arm with a sharp, pain-filled breath. His wand clattered onto the floor. His own nearest opponent, Rodolphus Lestrange, got briefly distracted by the sound of wood on expensive stone but it was enough for him. His curse connected with the oldest Lestrange and he was blown back against the wall with a loud crash. He did not get up again and blood started to appear around his head. The first of the Death Eaters to fall, though he doubted that he had killed the man.

But they had already lost six of their own at that point and the three of them were not enough to defend their fallen allies against five well-trained Death Eaters. Especially because the loss of her husband had angered Bellatrix Lestrange enough that she started to use more deadly spells and curses than before. Relatively harmless cutting and torture curses were now exchanged for clearly dark curses meant to _kill_ and red and green beams often left her wand.

It didn’t take long before a bright red _Crucio_ hit George and he was downed with a toe-curling scream of pain. The one good eye of the female Lestrange lit up with pleasure at the noises she managed to wrench from him.

It was only a spell send her way by Bill that finally stopped the torture curse as the crazed woman was forced to duck out of the way. But it didn’t stop her from levelling her wand on his younger brother. Nor did that stop her from shouting the Killing Curse towards his panting and heaving form.

George wouldn’t be able to move out of the way in time. Nor would Bill be able to stop the curse as he was currently engaged with both adult Malfoys. He himself had no clear shot to stop the curse with any magical means he could think of. So he did the only thing he could do. He raced forward and jumped in front of the curse.

Time seemed to slow down as the green light of the spell came closer as he moved forwards. He had so little time before it would reach him, but he was determined to save the others. It was the last thing he could do after he had betrayed his own family so cruelly. He focused all his magic and just wished. Wished for them to be somewhere safe.

He ignored the tear that made its way alongside the bridge of his nose as he focused on his wish to see the others safe and the green curse flying towards his younger brother.

The last thing he heard before he and the curse collided and everything became black was his older brother’s desperate voice calling out for him.

**oOoOoOo**

It was disorientating, waking up after he had retreated into his ow mind. It was especially disorientating as he couldn’t quite remember _why_ he had retreated as far into his mind as he had.  
Nor could he remember how he had gotten into the small, white room he was currently laying in. Especially because the white room was completely unfamiliar to him.

The room was completely white, with a small window high upon the wall. He wouldn’t be able to see through it if he were standing – it was simply too high – but he could catch glimpses of the grey sky in his current position. The bed he was lying on was hard and white. The covers were white, his pillow was white. The small night table was white. Everything was white and boring. Even the two doors leading elsewhere were white.

He focused on the reason why he was in the white room. He had retreated into his own mind. He was aware that his retreat had been partially caused by Voldemort. The loss of Sirius combined with the betrayal of his _grandfather_ had been too much.

But that didn’t explain _why_ he had sank as deep as he had. Nor did it explain why he had been dragged out of his mind so abruptly. The last handful of times he had retreated he had woken up like he had gone to sleep: slowly and painlessly. This time, the change from being inside his mind to going back into reality had been abrupt and not unlike the feeling of a trip with a portkey.

He vaguely remembered a familiar, possessive voice but he couldn’t remember the words that voice had spoken. Nor could he remember why it had felt familiar. He just remembered that something was wrong with that voice.

His confused mussing was interrupted as Madam Pomfrey entered his room. Her very presence did explain the whiteness of the room. It, however, did _not_ explain how he had gotten there. He distantly remembered talking to Voldemort before he had retreated inside his mind. He remembered accusing the snake-like male of betrayal. But mostly, he remembered the still painfully raw loss of Sirius. His godfather and the last family member, though not by blood, that meant anything to him.

“We are pleased to have you back with us,” the school nurse told him kindly, “how are you feeling?”  
He just shrugged. He didn’t actually know how he felt. He was confused. He felt he loss of Sirius. And he felt betrayed.

She quickly cast a wide arrange of spells he had never heard of. Nor did he see what the spells did, but her hums of satisfaction or confusion showed that they did something.  
“You are in a decent shape physically. A bit too thin, but your wounds healed well and there is no lasting damage. Your magic levels are a bit on the lower side of normal, but some rest will fix that,” she stated resolutely as she looked at him sternly, “we’ll have to wait to see how your mental health has been affected by your stint into your own mind. Therefore, I would like to keep you for at least two more days before you’re allowed to return to your dorm room.”

“The Headmaster would like to speak with you as soon as I am done with your check-up and after I have given you your potions,” she continued as soon as she realised that he wouldn’t answer her verbally, “do you feel up to it?”  
“Yeah,” he answered hoarsely.

“Good,” she stated firmly, “I’ll send a house-elf for some food, so expect both your food and the headmaster to arrive approximately at the same time. You are to eat everything on the plate. You are far too thin and you need the nutrition’s and vitamins.”  
He just nodded. He had been inside of the Hospital Wing far too often to know that fighting the woman wouldn’t do him any good.

“I have a nutrition potion and a potion meant to temporarily boost your immune system for you,” she told him kindly, “you need to take both. I also need you to tell me as soon as you start to feel tired. Even if the headmaster is still present, just call for an elf and send him or her to me. It is important that you get enough rest.”  
He nodded again before he obediently drank the two potions he was handed.

“Good,” she nodded satisfied, “you can expect your food to arrive within a couple of minutes. The headmaster will probably arrive within a quarter of an hour. Any questions?”  
“Just one,” he said slightly more steady than before, “what time is it?”

“It is just a little past two PM,” he was told, “and it is the second of October. You have been inside your own mind for nearly four months.”

**oOo**

“I’m glad to see you awake, my boy,” Dumbledore told him as soon as he had seated himself down in his conjured chair. The chair itself was as colourful as the one he had conjured during the trail a little over a year ago. It clashed horrible with his robes and it blinded him almost as much as the whiteness of the room in the sun.

“How are you feeling?” he asked him.  
He chewed the bite of food he had taken – some plain porridge with fresh fruit – before he answered.  
“I’m fine,” he said with a shrug as he took another bite. Dumbledore watches for a couple of minutes as he finished his porridge and started on the chicken soup.

“ I have a couple of questions I hope you can answer for me and a couple of subjects that need to be discussed,”  he finally said after he had finished eating, “starting with what you can remember of the night you withdrew inside you own mind, if you do not mind.”

He furrowed his brow as he thought back to that day. He didn’t want to lie to Dumbledore, but he just couldn’t tell him everything. How could he, when he had _Voldemort_ as his grandfather? When it had been _Voldemort_ who had caused him to retreat into his own mind, but not for the reasons Dumbledore might believe?

“I got a headache during the History of Magic exam,” he started of slowly, “at the time I didn’t think anything of it. I wanted to pass that exam rather badly as I need E’s or higher to remain in Hogwarts.”  
Dumbledore leaned forward at that but he didn’t interrupt him.  
“After the exam we went outside. My headache had become worse and my scar started to hurt,” he continued, “It was a vision, only this time I was in it. I saw part of the Ministry. And S-Sirius being tortured by Voldemort.”

He breathed deeply as a flash of pain shot through him.  
“We tried to find either you or McGonagall, but neither of you were present so we went to ask Umbridge,” he stated matter-of-factly. It was the only way he could keep going.  
“It wasn’t hard to convince her to let us go to the Ministry,” he remembered how dirty he had felt after the conversation he had had with her, but he had been determined to save Sirius and to forget about everything else.

“It wasn’t hard to get into the Ministry, as no one was there. And it wasn’t hard to find our way through the Ministry,” he said with a humourless laugh, “the vision had been rather detailed, after all. However, we were attacked before we could reach our destination. We managed to reach it unharmed, but Sirius was not there. No one was there.”

“Would I be correct in assuming that your destination was a large room with rows and rows of prophecies?” Dumbledore interrupted him before he could continue.  
He nodded in response, “I picked up one of the orbs as it had my name on it. We were surrounded by Death Eaters almost immediately.”

He remembered how frightened he had been. How afraid he had been that he had led his own friends into an ambush. How scared he had been that he wouldn’t be able to get them out.

“I managed to distract them and we ran,” he continued, “we split up. Ginny, Neville and Luna one way, Ron and Hermione a second way. I went a third way. The Death Eaters followed me, as I had expected.”

“They managed to catch up with me and surround me,” he said with a frown. He remembered that one of them had hurt him. He remembered the pain he had felt. A pain so terrible and all-consuming that he had blacked out. He didn’t quite know what happened between that point in time and the moment he was suddenly emerged into the chaos of battle.  
“They threatened me, I think,” he continued slowly, “and I got hurt. But I don’t really remember what happened next.”  
Dumbledore mirrored his frown.

“What do you remember after that?” he asked, “do you remember what happened to your friends?”  
He shook his head.  
“I remember being in the battle in the same room as before. I remember S-Sirius being killed by Bellatrix Lestrange,” he smiled bitterly as he remembered the soul-searing pain that had shot through him as soon as the spell had hit his godfather. He remembered running towards him and throwing himself at the body. And he remembered _Bellatrix_ , “I remember going after her. I wanted her to hurt as badly as I did at that moment. I shot spells at her, but I can’t remember which ones. I just remember that she got hurt. I also remember that I removed her eye.”

Dumbledore looked slightly disturbed as his vicious expression and the manic gleam but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Voldemort showed up,” he stated flatly before he closed his eyes, “I remember that we talked. I retreated into my own mind after that.”  
“He didn’t hurt you?” Dumbledore asked surprised, “he didn’t try to convince you to join him. Or to kill you?  
“No,” he answered softly but he didn’t open his eyes. It was a lie, partially. He had hurt him. But it wasn’t the kind of hurt one could heal with a sweep of their wand. Or, one could. But as Wormtail had shown, it wasn’t the kind of healing one needed.

Silence rang through the room after that and minutes went by in which neither of them spoke or moved.  
He was starting to feel tired, but he wasn’t tired enough to sleep just yet.

“Do you know what kind of spell Sirius was hit with?” Dumbledore finally asked. He opened his eyes to look at the headmaster and he cocked his head slightly as he considered the question.  
“Does it matter?” he finally said, once again a bitter tone present in his voice, “he is dead.”

“It does matter,” Dumbledore said with a kind smile, “he did not die that evening. He is laying in the room next to yours. Whatever spell hit him, it forced him into a coma. But we do not know what spell it was so we can’t help him.”  
“Sirius is alive?” he asked softly in disbelief, “he did not die?”  
“No Harry, Sirius is still alive,” Dumbledore repeated, before he pressed gently, “so please, try to remember what hit him.”

He frowned as his mind once again went over that scene. He remembered the disorientation. He remembered seeing Sirius duelling with his cousin. He remembered trying to make his way over. And he remembered seeing a spell flying towards Sirius and his godfather going down.

“Purple,” he finally said, “the spell that hit him was a dark purple.”  
Dumbledore nodded, a thoughtful look on his gnarled face.  
“Can I see him?” he asked hopefully.

“You would have to ask Madam Pomfrey that, my dear boy,” Dumbledore said, “but I don’t think that she would disallow it.”  
He opened his mouth to ask about the rest of his friends but a yawn interrupted him before he could speak. He tried again but another yawn made it impossible.

“My friends?” he finally managed to asked.  
“Miss Granger and Mister Longbottom both had some cuts but both healed without gaining scars,” Dumbledore said soothingly, “Mister Weasley and Miss Lovegood were both unharmed.”  
“Poor Emmeline Vance didn’t make it,” he continued, “and Sirius is in a coma, as you now know. But we have faith that we can find the spell that did this to him and he is unharmed otherwise.”

“And Ginny?” he asked with a frown, once again wide awake and fully allert, “how is she?”  
“We do not know,” he was answered mournfully, “Voldemort ordered her to be taken and we haven’t heard of her ever since.”

“No,” he whispered. He hadn’t liked the way she had been acting towards him but he hadn’t wanted her to get hurt.  
“Why her?” he asked, “why not one of the adults?”  
“We don’t know,” Dumbledore told him, “we hoped you or Sirius would know.”

Dumbledore arose from his colourful, flowery chair after that and made it disappear with a casual sweep of his wand.

“I’ll leave you to rest for now,” he said gently, but his eyes showed how troubled he was, “I’ll stop by after dinner to ask some more questions, if you do not mind.”  
He left with a polite nod towards him before he could answer.

He was left behind in a completely white room without a single thing to occupy him but what he had just been told and too awake to rest. He was not looking forward to that evening.

**oOoOoOo**

The mind on the other side of the link was once again active. Slow, confused and still echoing feelings of loss and betrayal, but active. A quick check had told him that much.  
But he knew that the boy would be alright.

His heir was strong. His upbringing had made him resilient. His genes made him powerful. His ancestry made him wilful. His heir would bounce right back and it wouldn’t be long before he would be where he belonged: right next to him.

He would have to train him beyond the Hogwarts curriculum, of course. Hogwarts provided the very basics. And only the basics of Light magic at that. But there was so much more.

His father had been a Potter, a line he had managed to trace back to the Peverells. The Potters were known to be capable combatants and the line generally brought forth Aurors, healers, Hit Wizards, Unspeakable and masters in Transfiguration. The Peverells on the other hand were rather obscure and only known for their neutrality.

James Potter’s mother had been a Black. The Blacks were mainly known for three things. Firstly, for being a large family before the war and their inbreeding. Secondly, for being completely and utterly bat-shit crazy. Bellatrix didn’t help that rumour. And Thirdly, for their Dark magic and prejudice against muggleborns. And it was true that Blacks often became masters in specific branches of Dark magic.   
But the Blacks were also the line that brought forth metamorphmagi. And though no true metamorphmagi had been born until Nymphadora Tonks, it was known that most of the magically strong Blacks and those related to them were capable of altering their appearances slightly.   
The Black line generally produced strong Aurors, Unspeakables, politicians, masters in interrogation techniques and spies.

The Blacks and Potters were both known to bring forth capable, natural leaders.

The boy’s mother – his daughter – had brought a couple of powerful lines together in form of his heir. He himself contained the blood of the Slytherins, the Gaunts and the Peverells. His wife had provided the genes of a Lamia, a dark and powerful creature.

The Slytherins and the Gaunts were both known to extremely powerful wizards, Parselmouths and masters of most branches of the Dark Arts. Though, the reputation of the Gaunts had taken a hit with their over the top inbreeding. The Slytherins were also known to produce masters of the Black Arts and masters of Parselmagic, a branch they had created. Both lines, however, were also known for their prejudice and hatred against everything that was not pure.

A Lamia on the other hand was known as a demon that devoured children and was at least part serpent. They were extremely beautiful, graceful and powerful _dark_ creatures that hunted with the ease of a large wildcat and guarded their young with the ferocity of a nesting mother dragon. That last part wasn’t odd if one knew the Greek myths surrounding the creature.   
It was said that the Lamia were the daughters of Hecate, the Greek goddess of Magic, ghosts, sorcery, necromancy and herbs and poisonous plants. And though he personally didn’t believe in that, it was true that Lamia were masters of those types of magic. And it was known that Lamia, though dark and rare, were seemingly blessed by Magic.

And his daughter had been powerful. Whereas he had been able to willingly hurt people with his controlled underage magic, she had been able to use her controlled underage magic to float and to make flowers bloom. And that was just one example he had taken from Severus’ mind. She had healed small animals. She had used her control to gain more knowledge. And she, like him, had been capable of using slight wandless magic even after she had gotten her wand.

He had always known that she was far more powerful than her husband. He had already acknowledged that grudgingly when he hadn’t even known that she was the result of the mixing of his seed with his wife’s egg. But he could explain that power now. It was just a shame that she hadn’t been willing to use it to fight for him and his ideas.

But he had his heir now. And his heir was just as powerful, if not more, than his mother had been.  
After all, he combined all those lines in one single, young, malleable package. He could still be trained.

But first, he had to be brought _home_.


	4. Chapter 3

**Unbreakable Ties**

**Chapter 3**

**_“:…:”_** Parseltongue.

**oOoOoOo**

Dumbledore returned that evening after dinner, as he had said he would.  
He looked troubled and older than he had ever seen him look before.

“The news that you have awakened has spread throughout the school,” Dumbledore told him after he had once again conjured a colourful armchair and had sat down, “Madam Pomfrey will keep them away from you, but it is probable that letters and gifts will arrive for you.”  
He didn’t respond as there was nothing he could think of to say.

Dumbledore folded his hands and placed them underneath his chin as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He looked at him over the top edge of his glasses, his blue eyes sharp and inquiring.  
“I know that I haven’t paid a lot of attention to the happenings in and around the school the last year. Nor did I keep up with what the Daily Prophet wrote,” he started, “a couple of things came therefore as a surprise to me. As I mentioned this afternoon, I have a couple of questions for you.”

Dread shot through him. It wasn’t hard to guess most of the questions the headmaster wanted to ask him. It was also not hard to admit to himself that he rather returned to the black emptiness of his mind than to even consider answering those questions.

“To start off easily,” Dumbledore stated gently, as if to soften the blow of the upcoming question, “who adopted you?”  
He debated how to answer that question best. He couldn’t exactly _tell_ the headmaster that he had been adopted by the man’s own enemy, now could he? Nor did he want to.  
“My grandfather,” he finally said, before he added, “my mother’s father.”

“Your mother was a muggleborn,” Dumbledore stated. His tone was both questioningly and flat at the same time. He leaned backwards as he crossed his arms, “and as far as I know, both her _muggle_ parents died shortly before you were born.”

“She was adopted,” he said with a shrug, “my grandmother apparently died while giving birth to my mother, but my grandfather is still alive. He found out about our relationship somewhere around November, I think.”

He furrowed his brows as he tried to remember when he had gotten the letter stating that he had been adopted by his parents’ murderer but he couldn’t remember. And it didn’t matter anymore. Voldemort had betrayed him, and that was the end of his familial relationship with him. At least, in his opinion. He doubted that his _grandfather_ saw it the same way.

“And his name?” Dumbledore asked as he once again leaned forward. He stared at him over the rim of his glasses, his eyes sharp.  
“I promised not to tell in case _someone_ would come after him,” Harry said with a shrug. The answer was a bit ironic but he didn’t care. Especially because he didn’t exactly state who he meant with someone. He would let Dumbledore decided who he thought he meant.

“Harry, we _need_ to know who he is if we want to protect both him and you,” Dumbledore pressed, “don’t you want him protected?”

He just laughed bitterly. He recognised the attempt to manipulate him, but he didn’t fall for it. And he could care less if Voldemort was protected. The man could take care of himself. It was hilarious that Dumbledore wanted to protect the man from himself.  
“He will be just fine,” he stated, “and the fact that only a handful of people know who he is keeps him protected.”

“Are you not afraid that Voldemort would use him against you?” Dumbledore continued, “he has shown that he can enter your mind anytime he wants. He could use the knowledge of his existence against you.”  
He flinched before he barked out another mirthless laugh, but he didn’t respond. That had been a particularly low blow and they both knew it. It seemed that Dumbledore was starting to get desperate now that he was one of the last individuals to find out about his grandfather.

A silence fell as Dumbledore studied him. The silence was awkward but he didn’t care.  
He also didn’t care to break it. He didn’t want to have this conversation for three simple reasons. Firstly, he didn’t think he could answer all the questions the headmaster had, nor did he want to answer them. Secondly, he wanted to needle madam Pomfrey to let him visit Sirius today. Thirdly, he was rather tired and he wanted to sleep. Sleeping also meant that tomorrow would be there earlier and the school nurse had promised him that he could visit Sirius in the morning.

“Did you hear what the prophecy said? The one you picked up?” Dumbledore asked after a while. He shook his head. He couldn’t even remember what had happened to it.  
“Why did yo-,” the headmaster started to ask but he interrupted.

“You know what it said, sir,” he stated, “I saw your name on it. What did it say? And why was my name on it?”  
“Yes, I know what I said,” Dumbledore admitted and he leaned once again back into his chair. His face seemed to age and his eyes turned sad, “but this is not the right time. I’ll tell you once you’re either older or once it is needed.”

He could feel his expression close off. Voldemort had warned him against this type of behaviour, if he remembered correctly. He hadn’t wanted to believe him. Dumbledore had told him before that he had to be older, but he had hoped that he would be told more now that he was sixteen. Sixteen was, after all, just a year away from his majority.  
And especially after last year, when Dumbledore had ignored him the entire year unless _he_ needed to know something. But Dumbledore himself had just showed that his _grandfather_ had spoken the truth.

“I see,” he said, his voice clipped.  
Dumbledore looked at him warily, before he asked, “why did you tell the Minister and madam Umbridge that Voldemort _hadn’t_ returned?”  
“I was questioned under Veritaserum,” he nearly deadpanned, “I didn’t tell them anything, I was forced to answer their questions.”

“Who were present during their questioning?” Dumbledore asked him urgently.  
“Umbridge, Fudge, my grandfather and Slughorn,” he answered with a shrug, and he continued while ignoring the stern ‘professor Slughorn, Harry’, “the article mentioned that, I believe.”

Dumbledore once again intertwined his fingers and rested his chin on them as he frowned.  
“Who provided the potion?” he finally murmured, “was it madam Umbridge or professor Slughorn?”  
“Slughorn did,” he stated somewhat confused.  
“And your grandfather was there?” he asked.  
He just nodded in response. Dumbledore’s frown deepened.

Once again, a silence fell. He closed his eyes. He truly was tired and he was still dealing with the remnants of his grieve and the guilt he still felt for causing the death of his former guardians.

“You had visions throughout the year,” Dumbledore stated after a while.  
“Yeah,” he responded without opening his eyes. It was rude and he was aware of it, but he truly was tired and he truly didn’t care about the conversation. Any polite person would have let him rest. He had only awakened that afternoon after all.

“Did you have visions during the Christmas break?” Dumbledore asked him, his voice tight and far more stern than he had ever heard.  
He furrowed his own brow as he thought back to that time. He had tried to forget parts of it. Some parts of it had been repressed by Voldemort. He opened his eyes and turned to look at him.

“Yeah, I had some of those back then,” he answered with a shrug.  
“About the Dursleys? About Severus?” he was asked. He just shook no. The headmaster had, after all, asked him that before. It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it was close enough. He felt already guilty enough about their deaths as it was.

“Did you see what happened to Emmeline Vance?” Dumbledore asked him.  
He frowned as he tried to remember where he had heard that name before. It sounded incredibly familiar. It took him nearly a minute before it crashed into him with the subtlety of a train wreck.  
That had been the name of the woman who had been tortured during the Death Eater meeting he had been forced to attend.

“Parts of it,” he stated grudgingly as he tried to repress it as much as he could. He had either forgotten about it or he had been made to forget. But everything had returned when he had retreated into his own mind. Her torture, the fact that he had condemned the Dursleys, the fact that he was related to a murderer. His trip into his own mind had helped him deal with it, but that didn’t mean that he had truly forgotten. He would never forget it. Time and the aforementioned retreat into his mind had just slightly softened the damage done to his psyche.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Dumbledore asked.  
“You already knew,” he answered flatly. He didn’t appreciate the fact that he was made to remember, “it wasn’t exactly news at that time. And as either S-Sirius or Remus might have told you, I couldn’t really communicate during that period.”

“Yes, I was wondering about that,” Dumbledore admitted, “and about the fact that you’re told that you had to get E’s or higher.”  
“I had to get E’s or higher for my OWL’s or I would not be allowed to return,” he said grudgingly, before he asked half-curious, half-apprehensive, “what happened to my OWL-results?”  
“They arrived on time,” he was told, “you got either E’s or O’s for your courses. I’ll ask Madam Pomfrey to bring you your mail tomorrow.”

“ _All_ my mail?” he couldn’t help but ask suspicious, “including my bank-statements and the letters I was sent by people who you don’t agree with? Or has my mail been sorted through and read already?”  
“I do not understand,” Dumbledore said, his brows furrowed but his eyes were stern.

“I have always wondered who my magical guardian was,” Harry stated nearly flatly, “because, apparently, everyone has one. I remember vaguely reading somewhere that the headmaster of the school automatically became the magical guardian for every muggle-raised student. I just realised this afternoon, after our conversation, that that made _you_ my magical guardian. Why did I never hear that the Potters had more than one vault? Why did you tell the goblins that I didn’t need to see my own bank statements?”

“You were so young at that time,” Dumbledore said almost apologetic, “and you had such pressure placed on your shoulders. I didn’t want to add to it with the pressure of having to maintain your own finances. You were just fourteen, after all. No fourteen year old should have to worry about something like that. I never agreed with that practice before, and I was not about to encourage it by allowing those under my care to receive their statements.”

“No offence, sir, but that is not your decision to make,” Harry stated flatly, “has anyone opened and read my other mail?”  
“We had to make sure you were safe,” Dumbledore answered, even as he seemed to sag into himself, “miss Granger, Remus and Minerva – professor McGonagall – went over your mail.”  
He chuckled slightly, “I believe miss Granger was quite jealous of some of your OWL scores. Remus was just proud.”

“I want all my mail delivered to me,” he nearly ordered. He was beyond caring that he was ordering a man as venerable as Albus Dumbledore around. He would probably regret it in the morning, but the man’s unwillingness to answer him and his sheer lack of regard of his wishes pissed him off, “every last piece, even if it was believed to be _dangerous_. None of you had the right to either open my mail or to decide what I can or cannot read.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore told him easily, “but first, do you mind if we go back to the rest of my questions?”  
He nodded, though he was both tired and angry.

“Did you, during your vision of poor Emmeline, notice a teenager standing next to Voldemort?” he was asked.  
“I didn’t have any visions of teenagers,” he answered. Though it was the truth – as he had never seen another teenager in his visions – he did know what the headmaster was talking about.  
“So you are not aware of Voldemort’s heir?” Dumbledore pressed.

“As far as I’m aware,” he started slowly, “Voldemort has no heir.”  
He had lost that right after he had betrayed him.

**oOo**

Dumbledore left not long after that. He had asked some more questions – among others about his relationship with Umbridge and the minister and their relationship with his grandfather – but he hadn’t really been able to answer them. How should he know? And why should he care?

He had called after the headmaster before he had left.  
“I’m sorry for my behaviour, sir,”  he had apologised, and he had truly been sorry, “I just really do not appreciate having my privacy disturbed.”  
Dumbledore had nodded but he hadn’t apologised in return.  
“We were just trying to keep you safe,” he had been told, “therefore, I cannot promise that you get _all_ your mail back. Some of it has been thrown out.”

He had just nodded sharply in answer. He might be sorry for how short he had been, but he had also vowed to never trust the man again until he was sure that he _could_. Because while the headmaster might have had his safety in mind, it was clear that he was more than willing to break everything that was seen as common decency. As he had shown by the fact that he was not sorry for interrogating someone who had just woken up after a coma that had lasted months. As he had shown by opening his mail when he had no right to do so.

He fell asleep not long after the headmaster had left.

**oOoOoOo**

His life was starting to fall apart around him. He had believed that he had already hit rock-bottom sometime last year and that it would only get better. Especially now that Sirius Black _and_ Harry Potter were in a coma and everything they had had would become his.

He had truly believed that _he_ would once again rule Hogwarts. That _he_ would temporarily gain the Black Lordship now that the current Black Lord was out of order. That _he_ would eventually gain all the money the deceased Death Eaters had no doubt willed to either the Dark Lord or to his father. And _he_ would become the heir to the Dark Lord.  
He would have it all and his life would once again turn back to normal.

But it had only gotten worse.  
The Death Eaters that had died at the hands of their Lord or during battles hadn’t willed all their money to either his father or their Lord. No, if he had heard correctly, the Dark Lord had forced every Death Eater to will everything to saint _Potter_ before he had killed them.

Saint Potter who already had everything he had ever wanted. The fame, the money, the freedom, the regard and trust of the teachers and students alike. Dumbledore visibly _cared_ about the brat. Even his own _father_ had seemed to care more for the wrenched boy than he had seemed to care for him. And now he also had the Dark Lord in his corner.

He couldn’t suppress the snarl as he was once again reminded of the petulant way the Gryffindor had looked during the dinner he had been introduced to them as their Lord’s heir.

He would have just felt bitter if that had been all. But his father had gotten hurt because of _Potter_ a couple of times. Firstly, during the Christmas holidays. Secondly, during the battle of the Ministry. And lastly, their Lord had hurt his father even more after the battle. He had punished him for things his father couldn’t have done! Loathing shot through him as soon as he remembered the way his father had looked at those times and how bad he looked now.

He wouldn’t die any time soon, luckily, but he had become weak and he could no longer perform some of the tasks he had as Lord Malfoy. So _he_ had been forced to leave Hogwarts every weekend to learn to perform those tasks.

That meant that he needed the time after class to make his homework and to study. Which meant that he didn’t have the time to show the Gryffindors – and the rest of the school – that _he_ was the top-dog. And not Potter. Because Potter was _weak_ and _pathethic_ and in a coma.

He could have lived with that as it meant that he could have bragged about the fact that he had become, in fact, Lord Malfoy and Lord Black _ad interim_. That he was rich beyond their wildest dreams.  
But that was no longer the case.

His aunt Bellarix had been disowned by the new temporary Lord Black. His mother was therefore no longer the one who would gain everything Black Bellatrix had brought with her once she had married Rodolphus Lestrange.

He had no idea who the temporary Lord Black was, but he had no doubt that it was Precious Potter’s new grandfather. This same person had also forced his father to choose between everything he gotten from the Blacks – quite some money, objects and rare books – and his family. No matter what his father would have chosen, he would have lost either the Malfoy name or the Black name.

His father had chosen for his mother and him. Which meant that they had lost quite some money and rare objects.  
Money and objects that were currently in the hands of _Potter_.

Not only had he lost the money and infamy he had gained as being the heir to the Malfoy and Black families, he had also lost a lot of money and political cloud. And that money, the political cloud and the fact that he was the heir to two of the richest families present had meant that he had been in the top position in Slytherin. A fact that should have gained him the title of heir to the Dark Lord eventually. Because who else was as perfect a candidate?

On top of that, his own _manor_ had been attacked when he had been home to learn how to take over some of the tasks from his father. The ancient wards had been ripped apart, which left their manor unprotected. The family wing had been destroyed. They hadn’t even been capable of _capturing_ the attackers – some members of Dumbledore’s group – as they had disappeared as soon as his aunt had _killed_ that blasted red-headed suck-up _Perry Weasley_. Or whatever his name was.  
Not that he could remember his death, as he had been knocked unconscious nearly at the start of the battle.

However, that had not been what had truly brought the once proud family to their knees. No, that honour went to the sheer _anger_ of the Dark Lord.

He had been beyond _livid_ when he had heard what had happened. He had forced them to pay – anonymously – for the funeral of Weasley. A _Malfoy_ paying for the funeral of a _Weasley_. He had also forced them to pay for the damage done to the other attackers and the amount of money an auror would get from the Ministry if one died during the job. For every single one of them. With the exception of _Perfect_ _Weasley_ no one had died. Why did they have to pay?

But that was not the worst. His aunt had been locked up in the Dark Lord’s dungeons ever since _and_ she had lost her spot as their master’s favourite. His mother, on the other hand, had been given the same choice as his father had been given: the choice between the money she had as a Black, or her family. She too had chosen for her family, which meant that they had lost even more money and prestige. It also meant that he had lost any right, what little he had left, he had had to the Black Lordship.

His father, he himself and the Lestrange males had not been punished harshly, as they had not harmed any of the Order members too badly and only in self-defence. Nor had they even _known_ about the attack in advance. But the punishment they _had_ received had caused his father to become even more weak.

_And it was all Potter’s fault_! If Potter had just acted like the pathetic Gryffindor he was, than _he_ would have gotten into the good graces of Umbridge. _He_ would have risen to become the top-dog in Hogwarts. _He_ would have been made heir to the Dark Lord. _He_ would have become Lord Black. _He_ would still be rich and politically powerful. And _his_ godfather would still be alive to help him to the very top.

His grey eyes flashed with determination and hatred. He would just have to get everything back. He may no longer be still in line of succession after Potter, but he could still make sure that Potter would make him the heir. He was weak, after all. It would be easy to _convince_ him to hand him everything.

He could always offer to trade the location of the youngest Weasley chit for the position. It wasn’t as if they could ever find where the Dark Lord’s manor was located. Nor could they ever attack it, as the wards were far superior to even the ward Malfoy Manor had had. The protection of the Dark Lord’s manor was also beyond the level he had ever seen or read about before. Even if the Order would manage to break the wards, they would never survive the attack.

And if that didn’t give him everything he wanted from _Precious Potter_ , he could always attack and kill him and claim the right of the conqueror. He doubted that the Dark Lord would be mournful over the loss of a weak heir. Especially because he would get a far stronger, far better prepared heir in his place.

**oOoOoOo**

He looked so small, laying in a white bed similar to the bed he had been lying in. He could see his chest move up in and down, even under the white sheets. But he was so very small.

Sirius had always seemed to be larger than life. Though gaunt, pale and slightly unkempt, he had always been so cheerful and so full of life. And now, now that he was forced in a coma, he looked small and lifeless. No longer like the man he had come to adore.

He was not dead, but they didn’t know how to wake him from his coma. The spell Bellatrix Lestrange had cast had still not been found and the longer he was in that coma the weaker he would become.  
Though madam Pomfrey had not outright told him so, he knew that Sirius would eventually _die_ if they didn’t find the curse and its counter spell. But they had no idea where to start searching.

He carefully grasped his godfather’s hand in his own smaller ones. Sirius didn’t deserve this. He had been locked up in Azkaban for over a decade. He had been locked away in his own hated house for the entirety of last year. He was in a coma now, and therefore once again locked away in some way.

In a way it was his fault. If he hadn’t believed the vision than this wouldn’t have happened. If he hadn’t felt betrayed by Voldemort, he would have thought of another way to see if Sirius was present. The mirror, for example.  
But he had felt betrayed, he hadn’t considered other methods and Sirius paid the price.

He would get him back. Bar Remus, Sirius was the last person he had left. But he wasn’t too happy with Remus on the moment. And the reason for that was the too small amount of letters lying next to his own white bed in his own white room.

They had been delivered to him in the morning just after he had awoken.

His OWL-results had been there and as Dumbledore had told him he had achieved O’s and E’s. He had managed to achieve perfect scores in Defence against the Dark Arts and surprisingly Transfiguration and Care for Magical Creatures. He had O’s for Charms, Herbology, Astronomy and surprisingly enough Potions. He had E’s for History of Magic and Divination.  
All his studying had paid off, but the marks no longer mattered the way they had before. It was just another way to show Voldemort that he was independent from him and would remain so. Voldemort had no longer any clout to pull him out of Hogwarts. _That_ was all that mattered to him.

He tightened his hands briefly around Sirius’ hand before he relaxed them.

But he had received nearly no other letters. His bank statements were present, or at least: most of them. He noticed that the statement he should have received in September was absent and he had already wrote Remus a letter asking about that statement. There were no letters from the Ministry, no letters from either Fudge or Umbridge and no letters from his friends. Though they all knew that he was in a coma, he had at least expected some cards.

“It is time for your check-up, mister Potter,” madam Pomfrey stated from behind him.  
“Can I have five more minutes?” he asked softly.  
“I’m sorry,” she answered him, and she sounded truly sorry, “but I was asked to check you before lunch so you could join the other students in the Great Hall for the lunch break.”  
He tightened his hands again. He had no doubt that Dumbledore had ordered her to do so. Why did he have to spend time in the Hall? He just wanted to spend some time with his godfather.

“Why?” he asked somewhat harshly.  
“You have already missed a month of classes,” she answered him gently, “you cannot miss more if you don’t want to have to redo the year.”  
He relaxed and nodded sharply.

“I understand,” he said softly.  
“But,” madam Pomfrey said kindly, “five more minutes shouldn’t matter. I’ll just ask the house elves to place the clothing you wore that evening on your bed and have them clean out your space in the Gryffindor Tower before I return.”  
He nodded, thankful for her care.

“I’ll return in five minutes,” she said, before she added sternly, “you’ll have to come with me the moment I return, however.”  
“Yes, ma’am!” he said and he shot her a grin.

She left him alone again.  
“I’ll find the counter to this spell,” he told Sirius’ prone form, “even if I have to ask Voldemort for help, I’ll make sure that you’ll survive this war!”


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the characters.

**Unbreakable Ties**

**Chapter 4**

**_“:…:”_** Parseltongue.

**oOoOoOo**

The world he had returned to after his coma was _strange_. That was the only word to describe the situation he walked into as soon as he had entered the Great Hall. He did not notice anything off at first: his friends were not acting overly odd, the Slytherins still sneered at him, all teachers were present as far as he could see, and all of his class mates were still loud and cheerful.

It was only after he started to pay attention that he started to notice the things that were _off_. Not always in a negative way, but still different from before. Neville had grown more confident, and he was eagerly discussing something with Dean. Luna on the other hand seemed more outgoing and appeared to be happily chatting with some of her class mates over at the Ravenclaw table.

Ron and Hermione were still sitting together, and for all intents and purposes still _were_ together. However, Ron seemed smaller, more subdued, _lonely_. Hermione seemed pretty much the same as always, but he could see the dark smudges underneath her eyes.

His eyes than fell on the place Ginny used to sit, and he could feel them darken. He did not need to guess where she was. If Voldemort had taken her, than it was likely that she was kept in the same dungeons that had once held the Dursleys.

Murmurs of his name rose as he stepped fully inside the hall, and a hushed silence fell. Some people continued their conversation – mainly at the Gryffindor and the Hufflepuff tables – but most of the attention was turned towards him. He ignored them all as he made his way over towards the Gryffindor table for his dinner. He did not care for their regard. He never had, and he never would.

He may have been let out that afternoon, but he had needed the time between lunch and dinner to sort out the mail that had been returned to him, to order the books needed for the classes he wanted to follow that year and all other items he might need, and to make sure those items he treasured most were still where they should be. And, most importantly, to visit his beloved Hedwig.

He had already sent a quick note towards Remus with the question where the rest of his missing mail had gone as he had yet to receive a response to his first enquiry. It had been short and to the point, without the usual questions and anecdotes he would have added. He was angry with him for the breach of privacy, but he was not willing to push the last person who had known his parents well away. Not yet.

Neville turned towards him as soon as he had seated himself, breaking away from Dean in favour of him. Dean looked vaguely insulted when Neville just turned away when he had been halfway into a sentence, but he too turned towards him.  
“I’m glad to see you!” Neville told him with a smile, “we tried to visit you every day, but you never moved a single inch when we were present.”

Luna, who had just joined them by dropping down next to him, nodded airily. Harry smiled at them as he started placing food on his plate. He was hungry, and the food smelled good.

Neville studied him briefly, his face still open and smile still on his face, before his face turned more stern, “don’t ever do that to us again. We were worried about you!”  
“I’m sorry,” he answered softly as soon as he had finished chewing, “it had all just become too much.”  
Neville shot him a sympathetic look, and Luna gently patted his arm.

“Come to us next time,” she berated him, her face for once serious and her eyes unusually sharp, “we can help you, either by just listening or by actively helping you. We are your friends, we _care_ for you. We don’t like seeing you hurt.”  
Neville nodded, though he looked uncomfortable. He could understand that feeling.

“Thank you,” he said awkwardly, “I appreciate it.”  
“You should,” Luna said airily, once again her usual self. They shared grins, and the awkward moment was broken.

The rest of the time, and the evening that followed, were spend just catching up. It was light, and no mentions were made concerning the war, the dead, or _him_. It was just the three of them talking lightly about how Neville and Luna had experienced the last couple of months and how they were.

He laughed lightly at the joke Neville made at his own expense – apparently, certain plants and certain types of meat did not go hand in hand. He smiled at them, beyond thankful that he had them in his life. They – Nevile and Luna – were his family. They were all he needed.

**oOo**

His eyes fell onto the small, spun glass orb laying innocently on a small pile of neatly folded clothing located on the chair next to his bed. The cloths he had worn _that_ night. He had forgotten about the prophecy. It had completely slipped his mind that he had placed it inside his pocket during everything that had happened. Everyone seemed to have forgotten about it, as neither Dumbledore nor his friends had asked after it.

He dropped down on the side of his bed closest to the chair but he kept his eyes firmly on the prophecy. It – both the chair and the orb – was neatly hidden from the sight of his roommates by the folds of his opened curtains. Most of them did not know about it. The two that did know had too much on their mind to bother with items laying near his bed. They would not know to search for it.

It was a miracle the orb had survived everything that had happened. A miracle, or just magic. He did not care either way.

It looked so very _innocent_. As if it had not been the reason why the Death Eaters and the Order had clashed just four months ago. As if it had not been the reason why a woman had died, a girl had been kidnapped, and two people had ended up in a coma.

As if it had not been the reason his parents had died.

He hesitantly stretched his hand towards it. It shook. He wanted to know what it said. He had the _right_ to know what it said, as whatever it said had caused _him_ to come after him. Dumbledore was withholding this information from him.

He withdrew his hand. It shook so hard he was sure he would drop the thing the moment he tried to touch it. He did not feel ready to hear whatever the prophecy said. He wanted to know, but he was so very afraid. Afraid to hear it was all for nothing. Afraid to hear that _he_ would still come after him, no matter what he had promised. Afraid that it would lead to the death of everyone he cared about.

He turned around until he lay sprawled on his bed. He did not care that he was still wearing his cloths and his shoes. He did not care to see the prophecy. He would deal with it later.

**oOoOoOo**

October flew by as he used all the time not in class to catch up with Neville and Luna, the wizarding world in general, and to finish all schoolwork he had missed. He learned about the state of the war, the couples that had formed or broken up, the attack on Malfoy Manor and the subsequent death of Percy, the death of some noticeable persons in their world, and the latest quidditch matches. He enjoyed himself during those times, and it made it easier for him to shove the betrayal away with each day that went by.

He had sent out the polite letter towards the Weasleys to wish them well with the loss of one of their own sons, and he offered his assistance if they ever needed it. He might no longer be best friends with Ron, nor was he a fan of Ginny’s behaviour towards him, but he still cared for the Weasleys and he wished he could help them. Especially because they were mourning _two_ of their children; one dead and one missing.

Remus finally responded to his letters in the second week of October, and he apologized profoundly for both his lack of reaction and the breach of his privacy. He wrote about how he had been trying to find a cure for Sirius, and how he had been trying to find a way to get the werewolves on their side. That letter came with a box containing all letters missing, even most of those the others had deemed too dangerous, and a present for his birthday Remus had gotten him in the little time he had. A short note had been added that told him the truly cursed letters and the howlers had been destroyed, but that he had managed to save the rest before they suffered the same fiery end.  
He forgave him readily, and told him such when he called him over the mirror that same day.

He did ignore the glowing journal, as he was not willing to even consider talking to _him._ The deaths that he had been witness to, the fact that he had started to trust _him_ and had been betrayed, and the fact that _he_ had broken his word multiple times and had actively gone after his loved ones became easier to deal with as time went by but it never fully healed. He had however learned from the experience, and he had broken away from _him_. Their deal was, after all, off.

He was not quite sure _he_ got that memo however.

He had folded the book away in the last set of yellowish socks he had left of the Dursleys – the rest of the rags had been thrown out when _he_ had given him new clothing – and he had hidden it at the very bottom of his trunk. This way, he only noticed the slight glow a handful a days of the week.

The letters that came three times a week were just as easy to ignore: he just checked them for any spells or curses that could affect him before he threw them into a locked drawer of his bedside table. He spelled it shut with a spell he had learned in one of the Black books just to make sure no one – mainly Hermione – started snooping. The gifts that often came with the letters were treated in the same way: checked, and locked away.

The letters from Gringotts, and especially the information they contained, were harder to ignore. As far as he knew, the Potter vault had contained a net worth of a little over half a million galleons. However, every statement he got showed that that was no longer the case. The amount had grown and grown until it had nearly tripled in just four months, and it still grew. People had started willing everything to him after their death, often just shortly before their untimely demise. The money and items from their vaults had been moved into his, before the old vaults were closed. More money came in from investments _he_ had made in his name. Death Eaters were made to pay him fines for the damage they had done to him. And everything he bought with the money from his small vault was reimbursed with money from _his_ vault, as if he was just a small child that could not take care of his own needs.

The Black estate had also been added to his portfolio, as he was listed as the heir and Sirius was currently out of the running. Those vaults already contained a net worth he had never believed possible without adding the various houses, mansions and manors the estate contained to the total. However, _he_ was adding even more money to the estate. Most of it came from the Malfoy family in the shape of a hefty fine as punishment against the current Black Lord, but the dowry of both Narcissa and Bellatrix had also been redrawn and both ladies had been removed from the family. The Lestrange Family had also been forced to pay a fine, but it was in no way near the amount the Malfoys had been forced to cough up.

_He_ was making him the single most richest person in their world, and he could not figure out why. Why would he need all that money? What was he going to do with it? And why was _he_ giving all that money to him? Did _he_ not need it for _his_ _precious_ war? It just confused him terribly, and asking Neville and Luna, or even Remus for their opinions did not help him. They could not explain it to him either. It did not help that he could not tell Remus just who _he_ was.

However, the hardest to ignore were the people around him.

Malfoy was the easiest to deal with of the bunch. He had been deserted by the majority of the Slytherin house and he made it extremely clear he blamed him for it. His eyes were always glaring haterfully at him every time they crossed each other. However, he was never around during the weekends, and he had no support to back him up to bully his way around like he had the years before. He was as easy to ignore as Dudley had been: just an annoyance he could stay away from.

The rest of the school was impossible to treat that way, however. Most of his classmates were curious about what had happened in the Ministry, and how he had ended up in a coma. They saw it as their _right_ to demand answers from him, and they actually expected him to tell his entire life story to a bunch of strangers that turned on him every couple of months. As far as they saw it, his life and everything that happened belonged to the public, as if he was a possession and not a fellow human being. After his treatment at the hands of _him_ , who was just as possessive if not more, he had enough.

With the help of Neville, Luna and some of the others who knew him rather well, he either skipped most of the meals or simply ignored those that asked inane questions he did not want to answer.  
Most people complained for a while, but one furious explosion of his temper during a dinner he had had no choice but to attend in which he clearly snarled that his life was his own, and if they could kindly butt out _now_ , solved that issue at least temporarily. They would be back to haunt him with questions concerning his life. They always came back.

Hermione and Ron were nearly impossible to ignore. Hermione swung between being sad and indignant to see him with Neville and Luna, and being almost jealous of his OWL scores, of the amount of money he had obtained, and of the fact that he somehow managed to gain new friends easily. She demanded to know how he managed to score so high one moment, while she would nag at him about the fact that he had to do the homework he had missed whenever she saw him hanging out with Neville, Luna, or anyone else the next. He was sure she meant well, but she no longer had the right to nag at him the way she did. Not after last year.

She was also not willing to apologise for the fact that she had opened his mail, though she did admit that she should not have accepted when Dumbledore asked her to help him sort through his mail. It had not been his right to ask. But no apology. Just like in their third year when she had been the reason why his broom had been taken away: she had never admitted that she had been wrong, nor had she ever apologised. It was almost as if she believed she was never wrong. As if she had the right to decide everything he owned, he did, and he thought. As if he could not think for himself.

He already had multiple people who believed they had the right to decide what he should be, what he should do with his life, what he should feel. He did not need a friend like that. It was as if the words he had spoken to them last year were for nothing. They still seemed to believe that they were best friends. That just hanging out like they had before would solve everything and the world would be right again. As if he would forgive them for everything they had put him through last year.

They – Ron and Hermione – had always had access to his trunk when they had been best friends. He had not liked it overly much – after all, he could not access Hermione’s trunk, nor did he access Ron’s trunk – but they had been friends and he had nothing of real worth inside said trunk. His most precious possessions – the cloak, the album and the map – had always been located elsewhere, though his _friends_ had always known where. Hermione  still believed she had that same right when she somehow discovered that he had some rare books inside of said trunk. Dumbledore had not told them otherwise, and had even asked them to take his trunk with them when they went home for the summer. Hermione had taken it with her. She had even had the gall to remove some of the books he had been given by _him_ when he had been out of it for months.

He might have borrowed them to her, had she just asked. But she had just taken. As she always had.

Ron was just as bad. He seemed depressed about the loss of Ginny and _Percy_ and he seemed to blame himself for at least the kidnapping of his sister. He appeared to have retreated into himself and he had attached himself firmly to Hermione even more than when life had been easy and they had just been a couple. He had also become more serious when in class and more willing to learn than ever before. It seemed that the kidnapping of Ginny right in front of him had finally driven the seriousness of the war home to him.

However, he was still somewhat lazy and he seemed convinced that Harry would bring Ginny back like he had in second year. Like he had a plan and would just have to wait before he could be the sidekick of a famous hero once again. Even if he knew where Ginny was kept – and he had a pretty good idea as Voldemort had probably taken her to his mansion – he had no clue how to get her out. If a team consisting of some capable Order members could not even fight against a bunch of weakened Death Eaters, why should he be able to defeat an entire legion of them or even Voldemort?

Ron was also quicker to lash out towards the Slytherins and even the Ravenclaws, as if he believed that they were partially responsible for the losses his family was suffering. He had become especially nasty towards Malfoy and he was quick to start cursing him verbally, and even quicker to start hitting him with either some pretty nasty curses or hitting him physically. He had been in more detentions in a single year than he had been ever before in his entire life.

And he clearly believed that Harry would assist him with his crusade against the Slytherins.

That, combined with the almost two weeks of nagging, the demand for answers, the snarls to do something about the slimy snakes, and the sheer disregard of him as a person, led him to snap during something that had been a nice evening with some of the Gryffindor males, just hanging around.

Neville would later tell him that it had been spectacular and horrifying all in one, as he had not only started snarling in parseltongue, but his magic had lashed out violently at everyone in sight. The only people that had been save had been those that had bothered him the least: Neville, Dean, and the first and second years. Ron and Hermione had gotten the full barrage however, as he had already made his opinion known towards the rest just days ago when he had lost his temper in the Great Hall. He himself barely remembered what happened, only that he had been so very angry at everything.  

He had been so very angry, and he was aware that it had coloured his opinion of his once friends. Hermione might not nag all that often . She was rarely around more often than she had been last year as Ron was still the centre of her universe. Ron might not be as lazy as he saw him. He might not be more explosive than he had been before. It might just appear to be that way to him now.  
Something had changed in him, and he did not like it.

He closed his eyes in defeat every time he remembered that night. Most of Gryffindor once again kept a wary eye on him every moment they had to spend near him. It made him feel lonely, and unwanted and it reminded him of his fourth and fifth years in which he had been treated the same way but for a different reason. It hurt, but it was probably for the best. He did not want to know what _he_ would do if he gave him more people to use against him.

**oOoOoOo**

“Why did you ask her to check my mail, and to keep my trunk?” he asked before he added an almost disrespectful, “sir.”  
That question had burdened him ever since he had been told. Why Hermione? They had not been close at that point.

“She is your friend,” he was told, “you trust her, and I wanted to make her feel useful after everything that happened last year.”  
“I’m sorry, sir,” he stated, and green met faded, ancient blue, “I have not trusted anyone, with the exception of maybe Luna and Neville, for a while now. Not even myself.”

And wasn’t that the crux of the problem?


End file.
